As the retreating Bructeri began to burn their own 
possessions, to deny to the Romans every sustenance but 
ashes,

Still gripped by the illusion of an horizon;
overcome with the finality of a broken tooth;
suspecting that habits are the only salvation,

I introduce Penelope Gwin,
A friend of mine through thick and thin,
Who’s travelled much in foreign parts

dinah
shoreme
etsthocea

The vegan gourmet will have his way. Lamb chops
will soon be relegated to quaint cabins in the olden days.
The ballooning business of burgers, too, will change,

I slept in the back seat like a bad thought.

I know what you search, going further
Than promised, your refusal to look up
As if something might never be found;

Her breath swung open like a broken shell:

Moving away from rattled towns,
gaining, as a bird in a dishwasher,
an altered view, the owlish lakefronts

To enter the field without speaking
Of the bad years is to trust what is

Buried, or at least sleeps. All I bring to dirt
Will rise again through green, what survives